Simple Conclusions
by Moretta
Summary: John thinks it's a fair trade - milk for a night at the theatre. But will Sherlock ruin the plot for John?


John was sitting in front of his laptop, the little black bar winking at him on the blog upload page. 

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, either bored or playing mind games with himself, which meant he was trying to link together things that seemed  
>completely unlinked. <p>

Every so often he would come out with some random sentence or two. 

"Social disparity between men and women is just plain stupid." He said. 

John assumed that his mind was making lightning quick connections between thoughts and that only the by-products of all those actually reached his ears.

"It is an unfortunate consequence of the generalisation made by men who are intimidated by them."

"Yes, Sherlock."

He had been trying to think of what to write, but since they hadn't had a case in a while, he had nothing more interesting to say than they were out of milk (as usual) and eggs.

"The only person who managed to outsmart me was a woman. Not for long, mind you, but she did."

John looked up from his laptop with interest, "Someone outsmarted you?"

Sherlock turned over on the sofa and gave him one of his looks before turning back to face the ceiling, "I was twelve, John."

"Ah. Alright then," he paused, almost able to feel the words wanting to spill out of his fingertips, but nothing happened, "Do you want some tea?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the right, "We have a spot of mould on the ceiling."

"It's been there for the past month, Sherlock. Tea?"

"Hmm. Yes, I'd love some tea, actually."

"Excellent," said John, "then you should go and buy some milk."

Sherlock frowned at the ceiling, "But I take my tea black."

"Yes," John's laptop had frozen. Perfect, "but I take mine with milk. Go on, do something nice for once. I'm sure we'll find some way to make it worth your  
>while."<p>

"How?"

"We'll figure something out."

John gently hit the side of the screen, but nothing happened.

"Try rebooting," suggested Sherlock, getting off the sofa.

"Where are you going?"

Another one of those disappointed looks, "To get milk, of course."

He opened the door and left.

Not a minute later he was standing in the doorway holding a two pint bottle, "OK, I'm back, with milk."

John could hear Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs, "From the shop, Sherlock, not stolen from our landlady!"

"Quite right dear," said Mrs Hudson, taking the bottle from Sherlock's hand and disappearing back down the stairs, "I'm not your housekeeper."

Sherlock pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, glared at John and headed back out.

Now all John had to do was figure out some sort of reward.

Twenty minutes later, John had decided to ignore his blog update in favour of playing Solitaire.

He was stuck when Sherlock slammed the door open and went into the kitchen, holding two (two!) shopping bags.

"There is no logic to be found in those damn self-service checkout machines! None! '_Unexpected item in the bagging area'_ should not be unexpected because  
>you just told me to put it there!" The rant continued as he went into the kitchen and put the shopping away, "For crying out loud! No logic whatsoever."<p>

John couldn't help but smile, "You bought milk?"

"And bread, eggs, cheese, chicken, pasta and a tin of tomatoes. You're making dinner tonight."

What night did he not?

"Alright, but it'll have to be an early one. We're going to the theatre."

"That's the reward? A musical?"

"A play, actually. A mystery-slash-comedy. I thought you might like it."

Sherlock shut the fridge, "A play."

"Yes. Now pretend that you are something similar to grateful and go and make me a cup of tea."

Sherlock scowled at him, but did as he was told, "The things I do to keep the peace."

John was graced with a quizzical look as he snorted so hard he tipped his chair over.

That evening, they reached the Criterion Theatre at seven thirty-five.

Sherlock was bragging about being right, "I told you we would be early despite the lack of trains."

John glared, "Shut up. We're here."

Sherlock looked up at the sign, "_The 39 Steps_, John? You couldn't have given me something more difficult to work with?"

"Shut up," he repeated, handing their printed booking to the guy at the door.

But Sherlock wouldn't, "Am I supposed to be here just to have fun or to solve the crime in the story?"

"If you think you can solve the story before the cast does, be my guest."

"You're doubting me?"

John stalked off. He ignored him until they were sitting in their seats. It was mostly empty, but this was a cold Tuesday night.

"You're here to enjoy the show. It's going to be funny."

Sherlock shrugged his coat off, "I can do that."

During the interval, Sherlock explained his theories to John, leaving out some of the bits that he thought would, "spoil the rest of the play" for him.

Arrogant idiot.

He did buy John a chocolate ice cream though, which made him smile.

* * *

><p><p>

John tugged the zip on his coat all the way up to protect him from the wind, "How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock grinned at his from behind his scarf, "It was obvious."

"No it bloody well was not."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and let out a breath which turned visible white in the air.

"Alright, no, it wasn't."

"So how could you possibly have known?"

Sherlock smirked at him as he hailed a cab.

"Simple, John. I read the book."


End file.
